A Beautiful Blue Dress, Not Yours
by lunaleth
Summary: Today, she's getting married. Her. Your sister. And you cry, because no matter how much you wish otherwise, her life of magic and enchantment will only ever be a wisp of a dream for you. Petunia Dursley.


**A Beautiful Blue Dress, Not Yours  
**By Lunaleth

04.05.2010

Today, she's getting married. Her. Your sister. And you cry, because no matter how much you wish otherwise, her life of magic and enchantment will only ever be a wisp of a dream for you. Petunia Dursley.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Obviously.

* * *

Today's a special day.

_Special_, you think bitterly.

You stand in the dressing room, staring at yourself in the mirror. You have on a dress, dark blue, simple, beautiful. You cry, silently.

Today, she's getting married. Her. Your sister.

You stand there and stare at yourself, at the beautiful dress, dark, which is good, because the tears that fall don't show on the fabric. You wipe at your eyes, and you know you're being silly, and you tell yourself, this dress isn't your taste at all. This wedding isn't your type at all.

You remember, at your wedding, you had pinks and whites and frills, lace, ribbons, so many ribbons Vernon's mother tripped herself up. You were in a church, the biggest one in town, grand and magnificent. The cake was perfect, tall and white and delicious, the guests prestigious, the polite compliments flowing in in a never-ending stream.

You remember the dress you had your sister wear as one of your bridesmaids. It was pink and white and frilly, and covered with so much lace and so many ribbons. The color of the dress clashed horribly with her hair; you felt vindictive pleasure at that. This was your day, and your little sister was not going to show you up.

You remember, she didn't argue, just donned that dress and showed up to the wedding and was flawlessly polite to all your guests, and even though her dress was pink and white and frilly and covered with so much lace and so many ribbons, she was _still _beautiful.

You remember your father and mother. After the wedding, they welcomed Vernon into the family with a clap on the back and a smile. He smiled painfully back at them (he didn't smile very often). He would be a good husband, a good father. He would provide for you. He would be there for you.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, at the dark blue dress. Suddenly, the door creaks open, and _she_ glides into the room, wearing her wedding gown. So different from yours—no frills, no lace, a single ribbon. It's free, surreal, magical—so much like her.

She comes over behind you, picks up a brush, and, gently, begins to fix your hair. You watch in the mirror as those hands of hers twist and turn and pin until your hair is piled softly on your head, curling, flowing. So much like her.

It's beautiful.

She doesn't say much, just smiles a shadow of a smile and walks out.

You stare at the mirror for a moment longer, then you follow her out.

You see her other bridesmaids, her friends from that _school_ she went to. They're wearing the same dress you are, blue, and you feel like you almost fit in. They're not beautiful girls, not by traditional standards, but you see a streak of warmth in them, true happiness in their smiles, love, even. This kind of friendship, it's foreign to you. You watch, only watch, as they hug her tightly and she hugs them back.

You remember, at your wedding, your bridesmaids were beautiful, because you had purposely chosen your most beautiful friends to be your bridesmaids. During the wedding, they were complaining about their dresses and hairstyles and gossiping about the cute young men and not really noticing you at all. You didn't mind much. Wasn't that how all friends were?

You remember Lily standing in a corner with the dress that was pink and white and frilly and laced and beribboned to death. You glared at her and told her that she might be your sister, and she might be a bridesmaid, but she had better stay there and not mess up your day. This was your day. She nodded, the one time she didn't fight back.

The wedding. It takes place in a small church, delicate, not very grand. In spite of that, the place is packed with people, friends, so many friends, all happy and smiling and truly looking glad to be there. You see her classmates, and—teachers? They must be. All happy.

The music begins, and you follow your sister and her bridesmaids out. Your eyes fall on the groom, and there he stands, with his typical messy hair and muddy hazel eyes. But today, he looks like the happiest man in the world. You can tell he loves her, that he lives for her and would die for her. And you glance back to Vernon, sitting in there the back row. He's so plain and sensible, and—no, he's there for you. He's a good husband, will be a good father, and he's there for you.

By the door, in the shadows, you see a man dressed in black. Oddly familiar, dark hair, rather long nose. Your eyes stop on him because, of all the people here, he is the only one who's sad, and these negative emotions you can understand. He has a pained look on his face, and you see his tears fall slowly. Why is he sad? You can't help but be curious. You thought your sister was loved by all her friends. So why is this man sad at her happiness?

You can't get your mind around it, and you can't help but feel like you've seen him somewhere before.

He doesn't do much. He leaves before the vows are read.

You stand there, and because you're in that blue dress and your hair is beautiful, you almost fit in.

You see her friends, smiling broadly. A tall boy with brown hair and a shorter, slightly wider one. The best man, grinning, as happy as the groom. _Him_, laughing. _Her_, radiant. All this happiness, this warm, genuine emotion, all this is so foreign to you.

After the wedding, your parents go up to him. Your mum cries, your dad hugs him warmly. He hugs them back and tells them, earnestly, that he'll take care of their little girl. They don't doubt him. Tears, happiness all around.

The reception is in a park. You remember scoffing disdainfully at that. A park? A hotel, or a mansion, would be much better suited for a wedding reception. Lily just smiled, saying that the guests would probably love a bit of fresh air after being stuck inside for so long.

You remember thinking, that's so like her.

The park. Even the trees and flowers seem to be happy. Birds chirping, sun shining, breezes playing about, everyone smiling.

You wish it would rain.

You stand there, with your husband by your side, and because you're in the blue dress and your hair is beautiful, you almost fit in. The groom leads your sister—the bride—out and begins to dance. He twirls her around, and she's laughing and smiling and so much in love.

He grins and tosses her up, suddenly, and she flies into the air. So high. Is it possible to go up so high? Then you remember, bitterly, that they have their _magic_. She drops down lightly into his arms, and they twirl and laugh and smile some more. So much in love.

Your relatives are astounded. Everyone else, _their_ lot, just smiles and claps.

The best man walks up to the groom, telling him to stop hogging the bride. He begins dancing with her, and he whispers a few words into her ear. She smiles, and smacks him gently. You see the laughter that passes between them, all the love and friendship and hugs. It's all so foreign.

You remember, at your wedding, you made a few slow turns on the dance floor with your husband before he had to go off to greet his great aunt. Then you stood there, alone, waiting for him to come back. The guests there were Vernon's relatives and coworkers. Your friends, your bridesmaids, were off dancing. The best man, you had never even met before that day.

The cake, the wine, the flowers. Everything passes in a blur, as you stand there in the blue dress, watching all the happiness and enchantment, experiencing just a bit of your sister's magical life. You stand there, in the blue dress—which is not yours—with that beautiful hairstyle—which is not yours—and you feel like a stranger.

It's all so foreign.

You have nothing to grasp on to. Her magic, you will never understand; her friends, you will never be able to laugh with; her beauty, her grace, her intelligence, her kindness, her amazing, magical, beautiful, Lily Evans life—

you will never have.

You and Vernon leave the reception without saying goodbye. You walk back to your sensible black car with leather seats. You drive back to your sensible suburban house with the neat lawn and the trimmed hedges.

After you go through the plain white door, you walk upstairs to your bedroom, still in that dark blue dress. As you pass the mirror, you stop.

You stare. That beautiful blue, so beautiful, doesn't fit in at all. It doesn't fit in with your sensible cream-colored wallpaper, or the crisp white linens on your bed, or the wood dresser with those little ceramic statues of angels on top. It doesn't fit in with those ordinary, ordinary windows or that sensibly plain door.

You start tearing at that dark blue dress, every part of it you can reach, and the sound of the ripping fabric rings dully through the room. The soft waves flow through your fingers, and you grab on and pull and pull and pull because you don't want to see it on you anymore, because it doesn't fit in with you and you know it never will.

Finally, you're out of breath. The dress is in a pile of shreds at your feet, and you hate that even though you've tried your best to destroy it, it's still beautiful.

You hate that you looked more beautiful in that dress, as your sister's bridesmaid, than you did at your own wedding.

You hate that you finally had a chance to experience your sister's world and her magic, her untouchable magic—always out of your reach—only to have to come back to your sensible house and your sensible husband. You know he's a good husband—he's sensible, and ordinary, and he's there for you—but a tiny part of you, a tiny, powerful part, hates him for not being more.

You know that you aren't special. You never will be.

You put on your favorite dress—frilly, floral print, pink. You pick up the remnants of _that_ dress and throw it out. You won't think of it again.

But you keep the hair up.

Just for a while longer.

* * *

Author's Note: I've always thought Petunia pieces were rather beautiful, especially pieces that try and see her as a human being. I mean, honestly. Petunia couldn't always have been _that_ horrible. I've always seen her as this tragic figure that couldn't take part in a life she very much wanted.  
Hope you enjoyed it :)

lunaleth


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